Remember the Time

by Annette Reynolds

  “Pretty good? I ended up hitting two-ninety and change with eighteen home runs. I only made three errors! I’d say that was damned good.”

  Mike smiled. His cockiness reminded him of Paul. “Like I said. Pretty good … for single A ball.”

  “Thanks for your support, Uncle Mike.”

  “So, is this it? Are you convinced this is what you want to do?”

  Matt nodded emphatically.

  “It’s a hard life, Matt. There are a thousand other guys like you, all saying the same thing.”

  Matt’s face took on a stubborn set. “There may be a thousand other guys out there saying it, but I’m gonna do it. I’ll be one of the best second basemen in the majors some day. Count on it.”

  Mike rested his chin in his hand and stared at Matt for a moment before asking, “What does your dad think?”

  “He’s all for it.”

  Mike suspected as much. Since the divorce, if Sheryl said “black,” Dan said “white.” And Sheryl was pretty much saying “black” about Matt’s baseball aspirations. Mike took a fence-straddling approach to the whole situation. The boy obviously had a talent for the game, but Mike also knew how tough it could be. He loved his nephew with all his heart. But more than that, he liked him.

  Matt was a bright, hardworking, good-hearted kid. As a son, he was every mother’s dream. As a young man, he was every daughter’s fantasy—and every father’s nightmare. He was a great-looking, self-assured jock with brains. Since his fourteenth birthday, Matt had had to beat the girls off with a bat. Sheryl was constantly amazed that the boy didn’t take advantage of his obvious charms. She jokingly attributed this to his “excellent upbringing by a totally emancipated woman.”

  Matt interrupted Mike’s thoughts, saying, “So, you’re gonna talk to Mom about it, right? Make her understand it’s real?”

  “You’re only four quarters away from your degree. Are you still planning on taking classes this winter?”

  Matt nodded.

  “Okay, I’ll talk to her. But she’s not the only one who wants you to finish school. Understand?”

  “Yeah, but Paul Armstrong never finished school.”

  “And he always wished he had.” Mike’s voice took on a wistful tone. “I’d give anything for him to see you now.”

  “Are you two talking about Paul again?” Sheryl Fitzgerald Keller had let herself in the front door and heard their voices in the kitchen. Draping her purse over a chair, she opened the refrigerator and took out a bottle of Evian water. “You’re gonna have to find another topic of conversation when Kate gets here. Where is she, anyway?”

  “Not coming,” Mike said, taking a large swallow of scotch.

  “Why?”

  “I never got around to asking her.”

  The subject was closed as far as Mike was concerned, but Sheryl persisted. “Well, why the hell not? We were just talking about her meeting Matt today.”

  “Let me put it this way. After she threw me out, it just didn’t seem like the thing to do.”

  Sheryl’s eyebrows went up a fraction of an inch before she went to the phone.

  “Don’t do it, Sheryl. She was in rare form today.”

  Matt was watching the two of them. He finally interrupted. “What’s the story?”

  Mike looked at Sheryl, then back at Matt.

  “It’s too long to get into right now. Just remember that when you do meet Kate, the subjects of Paul and baseball are off limits.”

  “Oh, man! That sucks! She must have some great stuff of his.”

  “Well, if she does, I’ve never seen it around the house. So forget it.”

  Matt was crestfallen. He’d envisioned long conversations about her part in Paul Armstrong’s life. Wonderful stories about incredible plays. Gossip about all the players. A chance to see all his awards. Maybe she’d even watch a game tape with him.

  He was about to enter another plea, when Mike cut him off. “I mean it, Matt. Not a word.”

  Sheryl had been listening quietly, a frown on her face. “You treat her like she’s some delicate flower. It’s been nearly three years, Mike. Someone needs to give her a swift kick in the ass. Bring her into the world again.”

  “Hey! Don’t tell me how to deal with Kate. I know what she needs, and it isn’t a kick in the ass.”

  Sheryl grinned. “Yeah, I know what she needs, too. But I didn’t want to say ‘a piece of ass’ in front of my young and impressionable son.”

  Matt groaned, while Mike exclaimed, “Sheryl, for God’s sake!”

  “Speaking of which, I saw your car parked outside Susan Lake’s place a couple of weeks ago. About seven A.M.”

  “God, I hate small towns,” Mike said in disgust.

  “And speaking of getting laid, guess who asked me out today?”

  Mike glanced at his nephew, who seemed to be taking the conversation in stride. “I can’t.”

  “Randy ‘God’s-Gift-to-the-Maidens-of-Staunton’ Shifflett.”

  “I hope you had the good sense to turn him down.”

  “Who’s Randy Shifflett?” Matt asked, perceiving the beginning of a good story.

  Ignoring her son’s question, Sheryl said, “Hey, those two car dealerships make him some good money. So he takes me out to a fancy place for dinner. What’s wrong with that?”

  “He’s a piece of slime, that’s what’s wrong with that,” Mike said.

  “Who’s Randy Shifflett?” Matt persisted.

  Mike turned to his nephew. “I just told you. He’s a piece of slime.”

  “Come on, Uncle Mike …”

  Sheryl was laughing now. “Hey, Mike? Remember the time you and Paul pantsed him at my birthday party?”

  Matt grinned. He knew he was about to be rewarded, but was disappointed when his mother picked up the phone instead. “Hey! I wanted to hear this.”

  “In a minute …” Sheryl punched in Kate’s phone number as Mike glared at her.

  “I can guarantee she’s not going to answer,” he stated.

  CHAPTER

  SEVEN

  Kate sank deeper into the warm, sudsy water, ignoring the ringing telephone. A plastic bath pillow cradled her head and a damp washcloth covered her eyes. Raising an arm heavy with water and the effects of approximately one quarter of a bottle of 1991 Vouvray, she blindly groped along the windowsill, searching for the glass. Kate’s slippery fingers closed around the stem, but the glass popped through them like a peeled grape and landed in the water with a soft splash.

  “Crap.”

  She sat up. Letting the cloth fall onto her stomach, Kate reached across the long expanse of the tub and made several failed attempts to grasp the glass. The bathtub was big enough to do water aerobics in; big enough for her and Paul to stretch out in; big enough to make love in. Now, the claw-footed behemoth was only big.

  The phone stopped ringing just as she held up the glass in triumph. “And on her fourth attempt, Kate Armstrong shoots and scores!”

  Kate wiped the glass off with a nearby towel, refilled it, and drank deeply. A shiver sent her free hand to the hot water handle. As the scalding water mixed with the tepid, a warm river flowed between her thighs, surrounding her like the afterglow of an orgasm. Kate sank back into the water until it covered her shoulders. The only sound was an occasional tapping from the radiator.

  She hears a tapping noise at her bedroom window and looks up from her English homework. The only light in her room comes from the study lamp. The shades are pulled down and she can see the silhouette of the dogwood tree’s branches whipping back and forth in the wind. Kate turns back to her essay but finds she can’t get too excited about comparing the styles of Hemingway and Steinbeck at the moment. She’s managed to write two paragraphs on the subject. The rest of the page is filled with doodles. She has written Paul’s name in all its variations. Hearts filled with P.A. + K.M. appear in each corner. She’s even tried “Katie Armstrong” and “Kate Moran Armstrong” and “Paul and Kathleen Armstrong.”

 
Is she at the Friday-night dance like everyone else? No. She’s stuck in her room doing homework. Grounded for the weekend for the first time ever. And just because she’d come home from a date with Paul a lousy forty-five minutes after curfew. The argument with her father had been short and to the point.

  “Do you know what time it is?” Jim Moran stood at the foot of the stairs, arms crossed.

  “I take it it’s after eleven,” she’d answered, just a little too smartly.

  “It’s eleven forty-five.”

  “God, Dad. I’m seventeen years old!”

  “Right. That means you’re old enough to tell time.”

  She probably could’ve gotten away with it, but she took it that extra mile.

  “Well, why don’t you requisition a walkie-talkie? That way you can give me a five-minute warning.”

  From his porch, Mike watched Matt and Sheryl drive away. He slowly sank onto the small cedar glider and looked out at the clear night sky. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw one of the neighbor’s kids leaning out of a window. He heard whispered voices and a giggle. Mike smiled ruefully as he closed his eyes, letting the memory come.

  He taps at her window more insistently. When the shade rolls up, Kate jumps and clutches at her heart. Mike peers in at her, smiling. He gives a little wave and motions for her to open the window.

  “God, Mike! You scared the hell out of me! What are you doing?”

  “I’m your chauffeur to the dance.”

  “What are you talking about? You know I’m grounded,” Kate whispers. “And keep your voice down.”

  Mike grins. “I also happen to know your mom and dad are going out tonight.”

  Suddenly, there is a knock on the door, spinning Kate around. Her mother’s voice says, “Kate? We’re leaving now.”

  The doorknob turns.

  Kate blanches and hisses at Mike, “Get down!”

  The door opens and Mary Moran finds her daughter sitting at her desk, pencil in hand. “We’re leaving,” she repeats. “I don’t know how late we’ll be. You know what happens when your dad gets together with his Army buddies.”

  Kate steals a glance toward the window, then smiles at her mother. “Don’t tell me it’s already been a month since the last Retarded Colonel’s Club meeting?”

  Kate’s mother chuckles at the pun. “Don’t you ever let your father hear you say that.”

  “You’re the one who came up with it.”

  “And I’ll deny it.”

  Kate thinks she’ll give it one more shot, and she asks, “Mom, couldn’t I just go to the dance for a couple of hours? I promise I’ll be home by nine-thirty. And I’ll stay in the rest of the weekend.”

  Her father appears in the doorway. He is slipping into his jacket. “Not on your life,” he states.

  Kate’s mother shrugs.

  “Well,” Kate says. “It was worth a try.”

  “That’s true, Katie. Never stop trying.” He smiles, taking his wife’s arm.

  Kate waits until she hears the car start before turning back to the window. Mike pops back into view. “Put on your red dress, mama, ’cause we’re goin’ out tonight.”

  “You’re crazy.”

  “Look, Kate. You wanna go to the dance, or not?”

  “Well, yeah,” Kate replies warily.

  “So hurry up and get dressed. I’m taking you.”

  Twenty minutes later Kate sits in the passenger seat of Mike’s ’67 Mustang.

  “If I get caught, I’ll be grounded for life. You realize that, don’t you?”

  “Stop worrying.” They are stopped at a light. “By the way, you look great in that dress.” He says it casually, trying to keep his eyes off the shapely expanse of Kate’s thighs.

  “Thanks, I hope Paul likes it.”

  Mike’s jaw tightens and he pulls into traffic a little too quickly.

  “Aren’t we going to pick him up?” Kate asks, as Mike drives past the turn to Paul’s house.

  “He’s at the dance. He doesn’t know I’m bringing you. It’s my little surprise.”

  “Oh, Mike! What a sweet thing to do!”

  He feels himself grow hot and is thankful the car is dark. “Yeah, well, I got sick of watching him moon around all afternoon.”

  They turn into the parking lot of the school and Mike shuts off the engine. He turns to Kate. “Well, here we are.”

  “Where’s your date?”

  “I wasn’t planning on coming so I didn’t ask anyone.”

  “You’re coming in, aren’t you?”

  He nods. It’s difficult, but he manages to say, “You’ll save a dance for me, right?”

  Kate leans over and kisses him on the cheek. He’s never been this close to her. It’s torture.

  “Of course I will,” she answers, smiling into his eyes. “You’re the best friend I’ve ever had.”

  Mike had been asleep for approximately half an hour when Kate called to apologize.

  His voice rough with sleep, he said, “It’s okay, Kate. I understand.”

  “No. It’s not okay, Mike. I don’t know why I act this way.”

  “Get some sleep, Katie. If you’re up before ten tomorrow, I’ll take you out for breakfast. I want to talk to you about your house.”

  “Mike?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You’re the best friend I’ve ever had. You know that, don’t you?”

  “See you tomorrow, Kate.”

  He gently let the receiver drop into its cradle. On his back, in the dark, he brought his forearm above his head and closed his eyes. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind he could hear the first bass notes of a Temptations’ song. He drifted back to sleep dancing with a seventeen-year-old Kate in his arms, the refrain of “My Girl” echoing through his head.

  CHAPTER

  EIGHT

  Kate knocked on the back door, then let herself into the small mud porch that in turn led to the kitchen. “Do I remember right? Did you ask me out to breakfast?”

  Mike sat back from the table and put down the newspaper. “You do, and I did.”

  “Oh, good,” she said in mock relief. “I was afraid I’d dreamed it. Do I smell coffee?”

  As he poured her a cup, Mike asked, “How are you feeling this morning?”

  She cupped her hands around the warm mug and with a touch of irony said, “I can’t be sure, not ever having experienced the feeling, but I think I’m a little hungover.”

  Mike chuckled. “Yeah, that must’ve been someone who looked a lot like you whose head I held while she lost her cookies at the side of the road. Several times.”

  “God, weren’t we stupid?”

  “That we were,” he said, turning to the oven. “Take your coat off and stay awhile.”

  “I thought you were taking me out to eat.”

  “You’re out and you’re about to eat.”

  “I see,” Kate said with a smile. She sat at the table and pushed the paper aside. Mike set a plate in front of her. “Eggs Benedict! Jesus, Mike …” Kate put a forkful in her mouth and closed her eyes in bliss. “This is delicious. You’re gonna make some woman a terrific wife.”

  “Having utterly failed at being a husband,” Mike stated, joining her.

  “Allison wasn’t good enough for you.” Kate grinned. “What about that artist you were seeing? What was her name? Eleanor something-or-other …”

  “Pleasant.”

  “Yes, she seemed nice.”

  “No. Pleasant was her last name.”

  Kate thoughtfully chewed a bite of English muffin. “What happened?”

  “She moved to Charleston. We still talk.” Trying to steer the conversation in another direction, he asked, “More coffee?”

  “Just talk?” Kate kept on.

  “If business throws us together we do more than talk. Okay?”

  “I’m sure Sheryl said you were practically engaged,” Kate mused.

  “Sheryl talks too much. Besides, I didn’t ask you over here to discuss my perso
nal life, as fascinating as it may be.”

  “Sorry. What did you want to talk about? I’ve forgotten.”

  “Your house, Kate. It’s falling apart around you. I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

  “I have. Reminds me a lot of me.” She grinned.

  “Not funny,” Mike said, although he tended to agree with her. “Some morning you’re going to wake up with the sun in your eyes, and it won’t be coming through the window.”

  Kate sipped her coffee, then said, “I can’t keep up with it, Mike.”

  “Do you plan on staying there?”

  “Where else would I go? I can’t sell it.”

  “Why?” He looked at her hard.

  Her eyes shifted to a point somewhere over his shoulder. “Well, I just can’t. That’s all.”

  Mike knew enough to leave that one alone. “Look, Kate. Winter’s coming and the damage is just going to get worse. I’m about to make you an offer you can’t refuse.”

  Her eyes found his again. “What’s that?”

  “I’ll do the work for you. No charge. I’m going to be here for a couple of months and I’ve got Matt to help me. It’s a crime to let that place go the way you have. What do you say?”

  “I say, what’s the catch?”

  “No catch. I’ll go over the whole place. Do an evaluation. We’ll do the worst first.”

  Kate chewed her bottom lip for a moment. “I can’t let you do all that for nothing. You know that. And I repeat, what’s the catch?”

  Mike took a deep breath and pretended to think. “Okay, how’s this? I need some help cataloging the furnishings at Cobble Hill. They’re doing a major restoration, which means stripping the house and storing everything.”

  Without hesitation, Kate said, “I can’t.”

  “Oh, I think you can. It’s just a question of whether you will or won’t.” Mike watched her face take on that familiar stubborn set.

  “Is this some plan that you and Sheryl cooked up? Get Kate back on her feet?”

  “Well, I see it as a barter, plain and simple. I can really use your expertise. I can’t help the way you choose to look at it.”

  She was wrestling with it. Good, Mike thought. A small guilt trip can’t hurt the cause.